


All I Have Left

by wallaby24



Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 06:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10565967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wallaby24/pseuds/wallaby24
Summary: Theresa and Philip May return to London after her father's death, October 1981.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Newbie here...been lurking here and on Tumblr (no account there) and have finally gotten the courage to post my own stuff, so I'm hoping nobody hates it, and I'm also hoping people read it even though they don't know me. :-)
> 
> Basically this came from reading articles about TM that mention the loss of both her parents when she was in her 20s, and thinking first how awful that was, and second how much better it was that at least she was married.
> 
> Disclaimer: The content of this work is purely fictional. No disrespect and political bias is intended by this work.

“My mother,” Philip could remember Theresa saying, a few months after they had met, “is ill.” He’d asked her what she meant, unsure if this were a temporary flu or something more serious, and she’d told him her mother had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis just after she’d arrived at the university two years earlier.

“But that’s a very variable disease,” she’d gone on to say, a false brightness in her tone. “Many people live with it for years, actually. You can go on and on and on and not get any worse for quite some time.” And then she had changed the subject, brushing off his inquiries as to how, exactly, her mother was.

When she invited him for dinner at her parents’ home at the end of Michaelmas term, it was immediately evident that, while many people may live for years with MS, his girlfriend’s mother was unlikely to be one of them. If she’d only been ill for two years, she was declining rapidly. She struggled merely to walk across her kitchen.

By the time he married Theresa four years later, her mother was in a wheelchair, and the writing, he felt, was on the wall. Although his new bride was stubbornly deaf to the issue, it was perfectly clear to him that he would not be Zaidee’s son-in-law for long before he would be attending her funeral.

So it should not have been surprising, a few weeks after their first wedding anniversary, to have found himself standing next to his young wife as her parent’s casket was lowered into the ground in the shadow of the church she’d grown up in. It shouldn’t have been surprising. He’d long expected this scene to play out, had been grieving it for her since the night he’d first met her mother.

And yet it _was_ a surprise—a shock, really—because it wasn’t her mother who had died.

It was her father. They’d lost him…a week ago, was it? It felt like months, but no, it had only been last Monday. A week tomorrow.

It had been late Monday afternoon, and her father had been on his way to evening services when he’d pulled his car out of a blind corner and been struck. Theresa had still been at work when she’d been called, and she’d rushed out to Oxfordshire, where she’d seen her father at the hospital in his final moments. She had evidently asked someone to please call her husband, because Philip—who was by now home and wondering when she would arrive—had gotten a call that his father-in-law was dying, and would he please come?

“You mean my mother-in-law,” he’d said, thinking that Zaidee had taken a turn for the worse and the woman calling from the hospital nurses’ station had simply gotten the message crossed.

“Hugh Brasier, sir. Are you his son-in-law? He’s been in a terrible accident.”

“But my wife—my wife’s mother—that is, Hugh’s wife. She’s…she’s very sick.” He wasn’t still trying to make the case that the nurse had mixed up the patient’s identity. Rather, he was arguing that this couldn’t be happening, that it wasn’t fair, that surely his wife was not being asked to lose _both_ parents. As though if he made a strong enough case—if he just pointed out her mother’s condition—then God would decide that it would be some _other_ young woman’s father whom he would take tonight.

“I don’t know anything about that, sir, but I do know Rev. Brasier has been hurt badly and may not make it through the night. Your wife’s with him, and she’s asked us to call and have you come.”

By the time he’d arrived at the hospital, Hugh was gone. He didn’t have to be told—he found Theresa sitting alone in the hallway, and her eyes told him everything.

She seemed to be more in a state of shock than grief, but Philip had opened his arms to her, and she’d sunk into them, clinging to him as she drew shaky breaths. He expected to feel her tears on the skin of his neck where her face was resting, but she did not cry, and after a few minutes, she pulled away, shaking her head slightly.

The rest of the week had been a chaotic, stressful hell. In the coming days, there’d been the funeral to plan, of course, but then there’d been the more important question of what to do with Zaidee, who was far too disabled to live alone. A suitable rest home had to be found, and the older woman’s things had to be packed, and in the midst of it all, Theresa had begun the steady work of cleaning out the house.

“We can’t do this all now,” he’d told her gently as she’d first begun to sort through her father’s closet. “We’ll need to come back—and that’s all right; the house isn’t urgent.”

“Yes, but we’d might as well make a start while we’re here,” she’d said with a steely quality in her voice that brushed off his own soothing tone. He’d understood then that keeping constantly busy was perhaps the only thing saving her from an emotional collapse, and he’d silently joined her in the work.

As far as he knew, she had only wept once all week. They’d been going through the books in her father’s library, choosing what would be kept and what would be given away, when he’d gone to fetch them both a cup of the tea her aunts were brewing downstairs. After a few moments conversation with the women, he’d gone back upstairs to find his wife seated on the floor, her knees hugged to her chest, sobbing. He’d knelt down and taken her in his arms without a word—not out of sensitivity or because he thought she wanted silence but because he could not think of a single thing to say. Attempting to shush her tears seemed inappropriate when she clearly had every right to them; telling her it would be all right seemed offensive when it so clearly wouldn’t be. What were you supposed to say to a girl who had suddenly lost her father two weeks after her twenty-fifth birthday, to a girl whose mother would surely die soon as well, to a sibling-less girl who was soon to be the last of her family? What were you supposed to say when that girl was _your wife_?

Eventually her sobs had slowed to silent tears and she’d pulled away, wiping her eyes. The gesture smeared her mascara across her cheekbones, and his arms itched to embrace her again.

“Theresa…” he began, not sure what he was going to say.

“I should get this finished,” she said hoarsely, getting to her feet.

He stood as well. “Darling, this doesn’t need to be done today. Why don’t you go and lie down—”

“Why, because you think when I wake up, this will all be a dream?” she snapped.

“No,” he said softly, “it’s just that I don’t think you’ve slept well…”

She sighed, and he sensed any appetite for disagreement seeping out of her. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I don’t mean to take it out on you when you’re only trying to help.”

He knew it was not intended as a criticism, but he winced inwardly at the phrase. _Trying_ to help. Not actually _helping_.

“It’s all right.” He wanted to kiss her, but he sensed she didn’t want to be cuddled again. “Do you want me to go and get you another cup of tea? I’m sure this one’s cold now.”

She shook her head with another sigh. “No, that doesn’t matter.” She picked up the cup and took a sip of the liquid he was sure was lukewarm. “None of this matters.”

Worst of all had been yesterday’s funeral. Theresa had been numb, with no tears and no reaction to the hand he had laid on her knee throughout the service, but with a private hell reflected in her eyes. She’d begun to tremble at the gravesite, and she’d glanced upward so as to prevent any tears from spilling over. He’d tried to take her hand then, but she’d jerked it away as soon as his fingers had brushed hers, her body pulling into itself in a posture that clearly shouted do not touch me.

Philip’s first reaction was confused hurt, but then he saw her close her eyes for a moment, and he suddenly understood: she was on the edge of shattering, and she feared a sympathetic touch from him would be all it took to leave her sobbing. He knew how she hated to make a scene. The sudden realization made him want to order every guest and distant relative away, to tell them to give her space and privacy, and then to hold her and let her weep against his shoulder while the casket was lowered.

He bit his tongue, half-afraid he would say this aloud.

Afterwards there’d been an abysmal lunch back in the church hall, where Theresa had barely eaten and then had been hugged and pawed at by what felt like hundreds of acquaintances, most of whom he suspected she knew no better than he did. Then the next day, they’d moved her mother out of the house and, after dinner with her, left for London—a departure that had prompted harsh tears from both women as he’d stood awkwardly by, not wanting to intrude and wishing fervently that none of this were happening.

It was now an hour later, and they were on a train back to the city. Theresa was silent, her head in her hands as her elbows rested on the table in front of them, and he had been at a loss for words for days now.

“I shouldn’t have left my mother,” she said suddenly, turning to look at him.

“Darling, you thought it was best if you could get back into the office next week—and then you’ll be back down next weekend.”

She shook her head miserably. “No, I don’t mean we shouldn’t be going back to London. I mean, I shouldn’t have left her in a home. Alice was right.”

Alice was a cousin of Theresa’s whom Philip had exercised great restraint in not strangling earlier in the week when she had berated his wife for “wickedly shutting your mother away.”

“She was _not_. Your mother needs medical care.”

“And I shouldn’t have been the one to give her that?”

“You _couldn’t_ , love. You couldn’t—and shouldn’t—quit working, and your mother needs help during the days as well. Bringing her to London with us would never have worked.”

“But…I’m all she has left, and I’ve _abandoned_ her. I’ve—”

“Made a loving, difficult, _right_ decision. And you have not abandoned her—you know how often you’ll be down to see her.” He was prepared for months of his wife being run off her feet with constant trips to Oxfordshire.

“It’s just…this is all so _wrong_.” Her voice cracked on the last word, and she laid her head on her arms on the table. “None of this is supposed to be happening, none of it,” she said, her voice muffled.

“I know, darling. I know.” He began to slowly stroke her hair. “It’s very wrong, and I’m so, so sorry.”

There was a subtle softening in her posture, as though she were letting go of her determination to hold herself together. He wondered if she might be about to burst into sobs again, but she stayed silent.

After a few minutes, she murmured, “I’ve got a dreadful headache.”

He didn’t wonder at that, after the stress of the week, how little she’d seemed to sleep, and her weeping that afternoon. “Do you have anything in your handbag you can take?” he asked.

“No.”

“Do you want me to go down to the dining car and see if they’ve got any aspirin?”

She turned her head to look at him. “Why would they have aspirin? They sell snacks, not drugs.”

“Right.” He cast about for a better idea. “But they’d have ice, wouldn’t they? Do you want me to go and ask for some ice in a towel or a bag?”

The ghost of a smile flitted across her lips. “You haven’t got to fix it.”

He realized, suddenly, that that was precisely what he wanted to do. What he wanted to do with _all_ of this. To somehow put it _right_ for her.

“I would, if I could, darling,” he said, thinking of far more than her headache. “You know that, right? I’d fix every bit of this for you.”

She smiled sadly. “Yes, I know.”

He bent to kiss her forehead, and she closed her eyes. His fingers were still running through her hair, and he slid them deeper, rubbing firm circles against her scalp. She sighed softly.

“Does this help, love?” he asked, and she nodded. “Tessa…” he began, not sure where the sentence was going. What was he supposed to say to comfort her?

“Don’t leave, please,” she murmured. “I don’t need the ice—I’d rather you stayed with me.”

“Of course—I’m not going anywhere.” Was that all she wanted from him? Was that all she’d wanted all week? The thought that his presence alone calmed her was both reassuring and disconcerting—oughtn’t he to be _doing_ something for her? He concentrated on massaging her head, grateful to have something concrete he could do to ease a physical ache, if there was nothing to be done for her heart.

Slowly, he worked his way down to her neck and shoulders. He was used to doing this for her after long days at her job in the City, but her muscles, he realized quickly, were far tenser after a week in Oxfordshire than after a week hunched over a desk. She murmured each time his fingers found a new knot, gradually relaxing under his hands, her body loosening until her breathing took on the depth of sleep. It was a relief to him, as it had been each time he’d seen her sleeping this past week—when she was asleep was the only time her heart wasn’t breaking.

But they were soon pulling into Paddington Station, and he caressed her shoulder to wake her. “Darling? We’re here.”

She sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “Are we home already?”

“Yes—well, London, at least.” She nodded silently. “Do you feel all right?”

“Yes.” Her voice was strangely soft. “Thank you—you did help my headache.” Oh, how much more he wanted to do for her than that!

On impulse, he pulled her into an embrace as best he could from their seats, brushing a kiss to her temple. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she whispered, leaning her head against his for a moment before he stood and went to fetch their bags.

“Here, I’ll take it.” Surprised, he looked up to see she had followed him and was reaching for the smaller of the two.

“I can carry them both.” Theresa seemed delicate, smaller somehow tonight, and it felt very wrong to let her carry her own luggage.

But she shook her head in that stubborn way of hers, wordlessly taking the case from his hand. It became clear as soon as they were off and into the station why she’d wanted him to have a free hand—she entwined her arm to his, clinging to him as they walked, and he felt as though he were half supporting her. Her eyes were glassy with tears that did not fall, and he made the immediate decision to get a taxi and led them out of the station, rather than down to the underground.

“Aren’t we taking the Tube?” she asked softly.

“No, we’ll take a cab.”

“Why?” It was almost a child’s why—there was no protest in the word, no indication that she cared much either way.

_Because you’re a wreck, and I want to get you home,_ he thought. “I just thought we’d get home faster,” he said.

In the back of the cab, she continued to cling to his hand, and he watched as she gazed listlessly out the window, chewing her bottom lip.


	2. Chapter 2

“Would you like a cup of tea?” he asked hesitantly. Theresa was standing in the middle of the hallway, absentmindedly fingering the cuff of her coat as though she couldn’t quite remember what was where in their flat.

“I–I suppose, yes,” she said after a moment’s thought.

“I’ll put the kettle on…and you can come and sit down,” he said, helping her out of her coat and then laying a hand at her waist, intending to guide her to the kitchen.

But she didn’t move. “No, actually I think…I think I’ll go and have a hot bath.”

A better idea, Philip reflected, than the tea. “Then I’ll draw it for you…come and sit down,” he repeated, not sure if she was going to move without specific instructions.

She followed obediently into their bedroom, where she perched on the end of the bed while he busied himself in the bathroom, starting the water and testing the temperature and gathering towels.

As he finished, he looked up to see her standing in the doorway, clutching her pajamas. “Would you mind going and making the tea anyway?” she asked softly. “And just bringing it back here? I’m sorry—I don’t mean for you to have to wait on me.”

“Tessa, I would fetch you the moon and the stars if I thought it would help you,” he said quietly, straightening and coming to embrace her again. “Do you want anything besides the tea?” She shook her head, and he kissed the bridge of her nose before letting her go.

Philip moved slowly in the kitchen, drawing out the process of brewing a pot, wondering if his wife might have been hoping for a moment alone. He’d bring her the cup and then leave, he told himself, letting her relax.

When he returned a few minutes later, he found her stretched out in the now-soapy water, weeping, and he stopped short, feeling the catch in his chest that had become so familiar in the past week. A soft _oh_ escaped his lips, but he didn’t know what else to say, or what she wanted him to do. Was this why she’d sent him for the tea, why she’d wanted a bit of privacy?

But the way she stretched her hand out towards him dispelled such thoughts instantly. He hurried forward to take it and, at a gentle tug from her, sat down on the edge of the tub.

“Please,” she said through her tears, “please…c–could you…”

“What is it, love?” He squeezed her hand and drew it to his chest—the nearest he could get to embracing her from this position. “Whatever it is, Theresa, I’ll do it.”

“Could…do you mind j–just…sitting here?”

“Of course, of course—”

“Be–because I just wanted…I j–just wanted to have you… _near_.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

“Oh, my darling,” he breathed, feeling his throat momentarily constrict as he squeezed her hand again. “Of course I’ll sit here, if you need me to…do you want your tea?” She nodded, letting go of his hand to take the teacup with both of hers, and he began to play carefully with her hair as she took slow sips in between gulps of tears.

“I could get out,” she managed a moment later. “If you’re uncomfortable sitting there…I–I’ve washed; I…I just wanted to–to _rest_.”

“I’m fine,” he said, ignoring the awkwardness of perching on the tub. “You sit and relax as long as you like.” She’d more than earned a long soak in the past week.

She nodded, her tears—mostly silent now—continuing as she drank the tea. How he wished she could stop weeping.

“I’m sorry,” she said after a few minutes of silence. “For–for yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” He tried to think what, in the hell of the funeral, she thought she’d done wrong. “You’ve got nothing to apologize—”

But she shook her head. “At the…burial. I’m sorry I pulled away; it–it was only that I–I was a–afraid I’d cry, and—oh, I didn’t want to do _this_ in front of everyone!” The tears that had ebbed and flowed burst forth again, and he leaned over to wrap his arm around her shoulders, pulling her near in the best embrace he could manage.

“I know,” he said softly as he kissed her temple. “I knew that at the time, love. It’s all right.”

“I j–just…I didn’t want…there were so–so many p–people, and…I…oh, _Philip_ …” She turned to bury her face against his side, and he felt a deep, sudden shame for his wish that she stop crying. She should feel that she could cry here, in his presence.

“Shh.” He caressed her hair and her back. “I know, darling, I know. But you’re home now, and it’s just us. You’re home.”

Her body seemed to soften slightly at the phrase, and after a moment, she straightened, wiping her eyes as she settled back against the tub.

“Tessa…” he said softly, not sure what to say. He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she whispered, reaching for his hand again, and he was reminded of her words on the train earlier. “I keep thinking about my mother.” He squeezed her hand. “Alone.”

There seemed to be nothing to say to this.

“She’s going to die, too, isn’t she?” she asked softly.

He shouldn’t lie, not about this. “Yes, I think so.” Theresa merely nodded—her tears had mostly ceased in the last few minutes, with nothing more than an occasional bit of wetness seeping from her eyes.

“I think I’ll go to bed,” she said suddenly. “I’m exhausted.” He didn’t doubt that, and he stood, reaching for the towel he’d set out on the sink for her. Theresa pulled the plug and stood as well, and he helped her out and then wrapped her in the towel, drawing her close. She gave a soft sigh, resting her cheek on his shoulder, and he kissed her neck, holding her and aching to turn the clock back a week.

“You okay?” he asked after a long moment, and she nodded. He gave her another kiss and then let go. “Why don’t you get ready for bed, and I’ll go and turn it down?”

He returned to the bathroom after she left it, planning to brush his own teeth and go to bed himself. His wife would likely be asleep before he joined her, he thought, and he wondered if this wasn’t the case when he found her curled up under the covers, facing away, her bedside lamp off, several minutes later.

But as soon as he had climbed in himself, she rolled over, snuggling against him the way she often did in bed, her head resting on his right shoulder and her arm stretched across his chest. And—good Lord—she was crying again, silently but hard, her body trembling as he felt her tears soaking into his pajamas.

“Oh, my love,” he breathed, feeling his heart break again for her. Seven days of stress and grief were pouring out now that they were at home, and, as disconcerting as her lack of emotion in Oxfordshire had been, witnessing this was far more devastating.

He held her as her silent tears turned into choked sobs, his hand making slow passes up and down her back, fervently wishing he had some way to soothe her.

“I c–c–can’t,” she managed eventually. “It’s–it’s–it’s—t–too…” She couldn’t seem to finish, but he could think of a million possible phrases. Too hard? Too painful? Too horrible? Too much to ask? Too wrong? The sudden death of her father, when she knew she would soon lose her mother as well, was all of these.

“I know, love,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “I know.” He couldn’t imagine losing one parent at this age—certainly not both. And he would have the comfort of siblings: Theresa was now the last of her birth family.

Her next words echoed his thoughts: “I c–can’t lose—them—b–both,” she gasped. “It’s—I–I can’t bear the–the thought.” He kissed her again, every fiber of his being aching for her.

“I–I won’t have…have any f–family left,” she went on. And that was the crux of it, wasn’t it?

No. No, it wasn’t.

He pressed his hand to her back, a silent warning of his movement, and then slowly propped himself up on his left elbow. She raised herself slightly as well, and he looked into her face, the puffiness around her eyes visible even in the dark.

“Theresa,” he said, gently, firmly, laying his hand against her wet cheek, “you have me. _We_ are family, and you will always have me.”

She nodded, and he moved his hand to brush her hair back. “I love you,” he said, “and I will get you through this.”

“You’re all I have left,” she choked. Another sob. “I love you, too.”

He leaned forward to kiss her forehead, but she lightly took hold of his chin, guiding him to kiss her lips as she wept.


End file.
